


given

by soul_speed



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Lowercase, Platonic Relationships, Protective Sam | Awesamdude, Snow, Villain Jack Manifold, bc thats how i see it. but interpret as you will, cool youre my responsibility now if anyone touches you they die, god i have no idea how in hell to tag things, kind of hurt comfort but not really, lapslock, mentions of various dreamsmp events, sam as the cool upperclassman who gets attached to an annoying freshman and goes, sam being the best looking after the server's resident traumatized bottle rocket, tommyinnit voice "this trauma shit sucks how do i turn it off", we love to see it, written along the lines of wilbur is phils kid but tommy isnt and only knew phil through wil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_speed/pseuds/soul_speed
Summary: everything tommy’s ever borrowed smells of smoke.or: reflection, a gift, and something about moving forward.
Relationships: Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit
Comments: 28
Kudos: 897





	given

**Author's Note:**

> i got brainrot for this duo so fast it wasnt even funny wahoo
> 
> anyways! here's a thing that i literally wrote in my friend's discord dms (which is why the format is like that) that ended up being 2.7k because i am insane. 
> 
> gonna be honest, i've never written for sam or jack before, and it prooobably shows? usually i like. do actual research and use my brain when writing but again i wrote this in discord dms and didn't realize i'd end up sharing it, so. shrugs. make of that what you will
> 
> anyways, the usual disclaimer: this is about the dreamsmp characters, not the ccs, but if they're not cool with anything here it's gone. also, please don't interact if u ship/engage with ship stuff of creators that aren't explicitly cool with it thanks

everything tommy’s ever borrowed smells of smoke.

he doesn’t have many such tokens, these days. some have been lost to time, others to betrayal. he had a pair of gloves from dream, once, and a fluffy scarf from eret. those were some of the first piles of ash to grace the server, and have since been joined by many more.

what does remain is far from untouched. wilbur’s old coat is blood-spattered and scorched. niki’s bracelet is on the verge of snapping. fundy’s old clock takes a few knocks to the lid to spin to the correct time. and tubbo’s old bandana, stolen at the start, is nearly in _pieces_ at this point.

and everything smells of fucking _smoke_.

he hates it. it should be an innocuous scent, one that shouldn’t bother him. but some days, he slips on tubbo’s bandana and catches a full face of it, and all he can see for a solid minute is _tnt raining from the sky and withers wailing like the damned and destruction retching ash and debris into the blackened air_. other times, when the wind nips at his fingertips, he pulls on wilbur’s coat and imagines an enchanted sword run clean through his ribs so clearly it nearly hurts.

of course the things connecting him to those he cares about are drenched in his goddamn trauma. it just makes sense.

but he clings to them anyway, because they’re all he has; memories of people and times past, when he wasn’t so shaky and brittle and tired all the time, when tubbo’s joking salute didn’t fill him with dread and niki didn’t stare at him with that strange look in her eyes and wilbur wasn’t _dead_. they’ve all hurt him, but he clings to what’s left of them anyway, even if they wouldn’t do the same for him.

of course, he can’t handle it every day. on the mornings when he wakes up sweat-soaked and screaming, even the slightest hint of ash sends his brain into a tailspin. on those days, he forgoes tubbo’s bandana despite the comfort, forgoes wilbur’s coat despite the chill. he often comes home with blue fingers and a chill in his bones that takes stupidly long to leave, but it’s better than having to claw himself out of his own brain-constructed hellscape every thirty minutes.

it’s a bad day when he goes to meet sam— or _sam nook_ , rather— at the construction site. he’d woken so disoriented that he’d scrambled to a mirror to make sure he was still solid and alive, still hacking nonexistent water from his strained lungs. a glance at the window had yielded snow, drifting down in big, fat flakes, but a glance at wilbur’s coat by the door had yielded a panic attack. so, after a quick, only slightly-burned meal (it’s edible, and that’s what counts, he’s eaten worse) he pulls on a fresh shirt, hunts down the least hole-ridden pair of jeans he owns, and sets out into the snow.

it’s cold as shit, but he’d expected that. so he burrows his hands into his pockets and refuses to let it bother him, even as every gust of frigid wind has him cringing and jealously eyeing the warm houses he passes.

sam nook is at the construction site when he arrives, in his usual spot. when tommy saunters up, he does a visible double take.

tommy waits for the pitter-patter of sam’s goofy voice changer and an all-caps greeting to pop up in chat. but instead, sam fumbles with the dial on his mask, then steps closer.

“jesus _christ_ , tommy, aren’t you freezing?”

tommy grins, only slightly clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. “i’m a big man, bitch. i don’t get cold.”

sam stares. “tommy, it’s snowing.”

“yeah, it is. what, did you not know? jesus, sam, you really ought to get your eyes checked—“

“ _tommy_ .” a shiver of unease wrestles down his spine at the seriousness of sam’s tone, and he shuts up and stands a little straighter. “you can’t be out here without at _least_ a jacket.”

well, all he has is wilbur’s old thing, and that’s a no-go, so. “you can’t tell me what to do. i call my own shots. besides, it’s hardly even cold.”

the wind chooses that moment to helpfully gust at his back, and he can’t hide the shudder that works through him or the way his eyes scrunch with discomfort. of course, none of this escapes sam’s gaze, and his incredulity fades to worry. tommy squirms beneath its weight, and he’s fumbling for something to say to get sam to stop _looking_ at him like that when sam beats him to the punch.

“right— hold on.” he drops whatever’s in his hands and shucks off his vest, then starts fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. tommy freezes.

“woah, are you _stripping_ , sam? jesus, man, at least buy me a drink first—“

sam rolls his eyes and gives a huff that _might_ be a laugh. but before tommy can press the joke further, a bundle of fabric is pressed into his hands.

“here, put this on.”

tommy blanks, staring down at the hoodie in his hands. it’s dark grey, stretchy and soft to the touch. on its front, a cartoon creeper face is emblazoned in black, semi-obstructed by the pull strings hanging down over it. 

“this is yours,” he says dumbly.

“it is.”

“i’m not wearing your hoodie.”

“please?”

immediately, tommy digs in his heels. “and what if i don’t?”

sam sighs, but answers, “then i’m not letting you work on the hotel today. i don’t want you outside in this without anything on.”

“wh— I hired _you_ , you can’t kick me off my own construction site! what the hell, sam, you...”

god damnit, sam’s got his head tilted at him with that _look_ on his face that tommy never knows what to do with. he half wants sam to yell at him, just so he’ll be in familiar territory. but he doesn’t. he never does.

“fine,” he blurts, just to get that sadness out of sam’s eyes, and fumbles with the hoodie. it’s a bit of a pain, trying to get ahold of the hem and open it up with his trembling fingers, but he manages. as soon as he manages to wriggle it on, he opens his mouth to say _there, happy?_ but the words die in his throat, because, well.

he hasn’t really owned anything _warm_ since... god, since a fucking _while_ now. for a while, the closest thing he’d had to a jacket had been his revolution suit. after that, he’d gotten a few hoodies in preparation for the winter, but they’d all gotten exploded or burnt or otherwise destroyed before the first snow. and then exile had happened, then the first destruction, then tubbo, then the _second_ exile, and— yeah. all he’s got now is wilbur’s coat, and frankly, he has no idea why wilbur even wore it so often, because the thing doesn’t trap heat at all.

but sam’s hoodie is soft and cushy and more warm than he knows what to do with. it drapes to his knuckles and scrunches around his elbows, practically swaddling him. and vaguely, he knows he should be embarrassed or something, but all he can feel is grateful.

“um. thanks,” he tells sam stiffly, because he’s trying to get better at that sort of thing. sam smiles at him, gentle as the falling snow, and heat rises to tommy’s face. he blames the cold.

“so, um. is sam nook around?”

he ends up running errands until sundown, fetching oak wood and sand and coal for the furnaces. he’d keep going, too, chasing that buzz of usefulness, but sam nook shakes his head when he bounces up beneath the rising moon and asks what’s next.

<THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR HELP, TOMMYINNIT... THERE ARE NO MORE TASKS FOR YOU TODAY...>

“what?” he scoffs, frowning. “c’mon, there’s gotta be something—“

<THE WEATHER IS NOT CONDUCIVE TO BUILDING, I’M AFRAID...>

“conducive, wh— _oh._ oh, c’mon, the _snow_? it’s just a bit of white, big man, we can handle it—“

<THANK YOU AGAIN, TOMMYINNIT... YOU HAVE BEEN VERY HELPFUL TODAY...>

“ _sam nook_ ,” he says, and nearly grimaces at how whiny his voice comes out. sam breathes a laugh, distorted by the voice mod, then reaches up to flick it off.

“go home, tommy,” he says warmly. “the hotel will still be here tomorrow.”

“debatable,” tommy says dryly, considering how long buildings on this server tend to last. he’s half-joking, but sam crouches slightly to meet his eyes.

“i promise. nothing will happen to it. i’ll keep an eye out.”

the truth in his voice is too much to handle, so tommy abandons that path, bouncing to a new train of thought. “right, right. nothing gets past you, big S. i’d like to see ‘em try. actually, i kind of wouldn’t, but you get the idea.”

sam chuckles, and the fuzzy swoop in tommy’s chest reminds him faintly of tubbo. 

“right. your, uh, jacket, then—“ he starts to tug it up, but sam’s hand on his wrist stops him. he stiffens slightly, but sam doesn’t grab hold, just pats him.

“hold onto it for now. tell you what— you can wash it, and then get it back to me. sound good?”

“i didn’t get it _that_ dirty—“ oh, hell, there’s the raised eyebrow. “ _fine_ , fine, i’ll wash it. uh. see you tomorrow?”

“see you tomorrow,” sam says. “good night, tommy.”

they part. tommy trots home, pleasantly warm despite the snow swirling around his ankles, and starts up the fireplace the minute he shuts the door. shortly, the ice is chased from the air, and he relaxes with a sigh. he should take the jacket off, now. 

he doesn’t.

he’s still a little cold, he justifies, pulling the hood up over his head and huddling close to the fire with a bowl of soup in hand. the fire hasn’t been going that long.

also, the hoodie doesn’t smell like smoke, or flint, or blood. instead, when he pushes his nose into the collar, he finds only the tangy scent of redstone dust and a hint of the strange cologne sam uses, which tommy would poke fun at if it didn’t require admitting that he can recognize it. something about the mix is calming, soothing the bad-day-buzz still itching at his fingertips, and he breathes it in.

it’s stupid, but god, he’ll take what comfort he can get.

he’ll wash the hoodie tomorrow. 

the next day is a better day, which is a nice way of saying he doesn’t wake up nearly screaming his lungs out. the bar is literally in hell at this point. on the way out the door, he instinctively grabs for wilbur’s coat, then falters. the world outside is still swept in white, and he can feel the chill digging its fingers into the crack beneath his door.

sam won’t mind waiting _one more day_ , right?

so he wears the hoodie again, and spends the entire approach to sam nook formulating defenses and apologies in case things go south. but sam nook just smiles and doesn’t comment, and tommy is sent on his way.

one more day becomes two, then three, then a week, then longer. it becomes second nature to pull on the grey hoodie as he’s headed to the construction site, and wilbur’s coat sits on its hanger and rests.

sam never says a word.

rather, it’s _jack_ of all people who notices, one day when he’s lingering outside the construction site in that shifty way that makes tommy’s skin itch. he’s returning with a pack full of wool, hastening past the perimeter, when jack stops him.

“wait, isn’t that _sam’s_ hoodie?”

tommy tries to continue forward, but jack’s leaning against the doorway in a way that oh-so-subtly bars him entry, so he skitters back a few steps. “yeah. he let me borrow it. can you move?”

jack narrows his eyes. “you sure you didn’t steal it?”

“i didn’t steal it, jack. and i’m doing things right now, i’ll have you know, so if you could step to the side—“

“uh huh, _sure_. and you didn’t steal my armor, and you didn’t steal wilbur’s coat.”

something catches in his chest, dry tinder set alight with a spark. “i— wh—“

“phil’s been looking for it,” jack says, the lightness in his voice betraying the darkness in his eyes. “said it just disappeared. such a shame, that he can’t find his dead son’s coat.”

“i didn’t _steal_ it,” tommy grits out. “it— fucking— it’s not like he had a _will_ , jack manifold, and it—“

“would have gone to phil, had you not snatched it,” jack says, and tommy kind of wants to bite him.

“it’s mine, now,” he snaps. “if phil wants to take it, he can come get it.”

_god, he dares him to fucking try_.

“or, maybe a good samaritan could stop by with the coat he happened to chance upon.” jack manifold leans forward, and there is suddenly _far_ too little space between them. his eyes are dark, and for a flickering instant, wilbur stands before him, backlit in a warm glow from the torches of Pogtopia. he blinks, and it’s gone.

“over my dead body,” he snaps.

jack manifold’s mouth twists into something resembling a smile in the way a flaming crater resembles L’manburg. but his reply is bitten off when his eyes flick up and widen, and the not-smile dies. before tommy can turn to look, hands settle on his shoulders.

“hello, jack,” sam says, and tommy shudders. he’s using his warden voice, the steely, intractable _fuck-with-me-and-find-out_ one. “did you need something?”

“just chatting,” jack brushes off, but he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “catching up with tommy. how’s progress on the hotel?”

“fine,” sam says, and nothing more.

jack squirms in the silence for a moment, then steps back. “easy, just making small talk. i’ll leave you to it, then. seeya.”

“goodbye, jack,” sam says, somehow polite even though every syllable screams _leave_. 

mercifully, jack does. tommy watches his back until it disappears, then lets out a long, shuddery breath. his head tilts back until it finds sam’s chestplate, and he closes his eyes.

“jesus. what’s his problem?”

“no clue,” sam says. “you okay?”

“fine. just— eugh. fuckin’ bitch, ruining my morning. i should mug him. thanks for chasing him off.”

“of course.” sam squeezes his shoulder, and tommy is suddenly keenly aware of their proximity. he steps forward, and sam lets him go. 

“right, uh, anyway— on an unrelated note, i _kind of_ accidentally stole your hoodie, i’m realizing, very sorry about that— here, you can have it back—“

and just like last time, he’s stopped halfway through pulling it off. sam just shakes his head.

“keep it,” he says. “i’ve got others. besides, it suits you.”

the words float aimlessly around tommy’s skull for a moment before settling. he blinks.

“oh. uh. okay.”

before the emotions can get under his skin, sam laughs at his wide-eyed expression. he bristles with a sharp, _“oy_!” and sam just laughs harder. the hard hat is pulled from his hands and set gently on his head, and he shivers when sam’s hand brushes his neck.

“come on, in we go.”

they go, and jack manifold is quickly forgotten. of course, he returns later that night, when tommy’s alone with the shadows of his house and the crackling of his fire. the darkness shifts and swirls into jack’s eyes, and the fireplace seethes quietly like a flag set ablaze. but the hoodie, even warmer with the knowledge that he hasn’t stolen it at all, wards them off with ease. 

“thank you, sam,” he murmurs into the fabric.

(later, he’ll show up to the construction site and find sam in a nearly identical hoodie, but yellow instead of grey. puffy will swing by and _aww_ over their matching outfits, and tommy will puff up and turn red. and he won’t resist when sam puts an arm around his shoulders and declares them fashion buddies, and he’ll ignore the soft grin on puffy’s face when he doesn’t.

and later, the egg will come, and things will complicate as they always do. but for now, there is his tiny house, and there is him, and there is a hoodie, freely given.)

**Author's Note:**

> i looked at c!tommy and said is anyone gonna project sharing clothes/gifts as a love language onto that guy and didn't wait for an answer
> 
> thank u for reading, get up and stretch and drink some water if u need to


End file.
